


I Could Have Crashed the Car

by darthjuno



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fireworks, Fourth of July, Graduation, Jealous Derek, M/M, Road Trips, fixing the hale house, motel shagging, non-canon compliant after 2x08
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 06:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthjuno/pseuds/darthjuno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek decides he needs to stop running. So he crashes into Stiles instead. Hard.<br/>Stiles finds he can more than roll with this--he can run with it.</p><p>Based on <a href="http://stelenskeh.tumblr.com/post/27007278192/i-could-have-crashed-the-car-a-derek-stiles">this fanmix</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to [Nikki](http://spookyskittles.tumblr.com) for beta-ing the first couple of chapters, and to [Amy Rose](http://stilinskisparkles.tumblr.com) for her endless support and beta help with the rest of it :)
> 
> Started writing it after 2x08 so it's not canon-compliant with anything that came after that.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek gets the heebie-jeebies from the guy who's trying to get into Stiles' pants, and there are milkshakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based on: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ym85zkFSxbM

Springtime’s almost over and Derek can actually feel the temperature rise as the sun climbs on the sky, his werewolf senses on overdrive with all the floral scents and the prey roaming freely in the forest. He’s been taking extra long walks in the forest lately, trying to clear his head, to formulate his thoughts on the future. The rest of his pack is about to graduate high school, and while he has to respect some of their wishes to go away to college, to travel, to live their lives, as the alpha his instinct is to keep them all close to him, here in Beacon Hills where he can protect them, where they’re safe, where they all belong. He knows it’s immature from a normal person’s standpoint, but none of this is normal, and he’d be left almost completely alone again and he hates that.

Of his five wolves, only Isaac and Erica are planning to stay after graduation, and they’re too busy fawning over each other and making epic summer road trip plans to care that the rest will be leaving for college. Scott and Jackson managed to score themselves lacrosse scholarships at SFU, which isn’t exactly next door to home despite being in California, and Boyd will be joining the Army not two weeks after high school ends, as his family—his human family—wants him to. Derek’s grateful that Isaac and Erica are only going to community college a couple of towns over, so they’re not moving away, and even though he wouldn’t dream of hindering the others’ futures, he just wishes they’d consider the pack before making such life-altering decisions.

The leaves in the tree branches over his head make a soothing sound as the breeze blows through them, and Derek takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment and listens as he walks. He imagines that centuries ago an alpha’s word was stronger than the law to the rest of the pack, but he can’t expect the same treatment now; he knows his betas are expected to go to college, get jobs, make families, and while he hopes they’ll come back to Beacon Hills for the jobs and families part, he knows he has to let them go for a while, for now. He just wishes it was easier done than said.

And then there’s the Stiles issue. The boy has been a closed book as far as his future plans go, and it’s been driving Derek insane; it’s enough that he’s basically losing three of his betas, but not knowing whether the honorary human member is also planning to desert him is too much. He’s become aware of a growing fondness he’s developed for the scrawny boy over the years—if he’s honest, it’s probably been there since the day he met him—and he’s come to realise Stiles isn’t that same scrawny boy anymore; he’s grown up, built up more muscle and more confidence, and turned into a young man that everyone is now interested in. Derek’s seen the way Stiles’ peers look at him, he’s taken note of all the different people he’s been on dates with over the last few months (one girl, two guys, all of them fleeting), and he has silently admitted to himself that he is, in fact, jealous of them. He can pinpoint the exact day at the end of February when the realisation hit him like a freight train, because since then he’s been unable to put Stiles off his mind for more than minutes at a time.

He reaches the hilltop so he takes a moment to admire the view, the trees all around him and the town of Beacon Hills resting peacefully in the valley. Somewhere at the edge of the forest, his pack (and Stiles) are getting out of school right about now, and Derek feels the urge to run down the hill and meet up with them, maybe drag Stiles away to go hang out at his place or something, like they’ve taken to doing over the past year without really talking about it. All this thinking about the future has made him restless, and there’s nothing like a few hours of Stiles’ company to take his mind right off the annoying issue of letting his betas leave him. Yes, he decides, he’ll do that, and begins his descent of the hill towards Beacon Hills High.

He gets there a couple of minutes before the final bell rings, and when it does he watches the swarm of highschoolers burst out the doors and into the parking lot, noise of conversation and starting car engines bubbling up and swallowing the sound of birdsong and tree-leaves in the breeze. He spots Scott and Stiles exiting through the door, and takes a few tentative steps towards them as they come down the stairs.  
“Stiles, Scott, hey,” Derek calls out, and the boys look up at the sound of their names. Stiles smiles his broad carefree smile and Scott gives him a nod as they both head toward him, and Derek feels so good that the days of clandestine meetings and police misunderstandings and hostility between them are in the past; it feels incredible to have packmates—to have _friends_ —he can pop up to see for no reason any time he wants. It’s everything he ever wanted.

“Hey man,” Scott says when they meet at the bottom of the stairs; they stop in front of him while the river of schoolchildren continues to flow into the parking lot. “What’s up?”

“I was in the area and thought we could hang out for a couple of hours,” Derek says nonchalantly, throwing a casual shoulder shrug to emphasize the easy-going nature of his swing-by. The boys give vague nods in response, and he’s about to suggest milkshakes at the retro diner when a tall, muscular boy in a grey button-down shirt gives Stiles a playful slap in the back and says “hey, gorgeous, haven’t seen you all day,” and Derek’s mouth goes dry.

Stiles turns around to look at the intruder and flashes him a huge grin the likes of which Derek was hoping were reserved only for him. “Ben! Where ya been, dude, you missed practice,” he says, and they do a shoulder-bump handshake thing which Derek finds horribly dated, but of course says nothing about.

Ben gives a scoff and adjusts the shoulder strap of his backpack with the hand that isn’t on Stiles’ back still. “Had to take a make-up French test,” he says with a wince, flipping his brown locks out of his eyes with a movement of his head. _Stupid boyband hair_ , Derek thinks. “If I fail, my life is over.”

“Drama queen,” says Stiles and Ben laughs; Derek notices Scott is looking away, down at his feet, his face frowned as he’s biting his lip. So Ben isn’t as popular with Scott, Derek muses, and makes a mental note to ask him about it when they’re alone.

Stiles looks from Ben to Derek and back and flounders as he realises they don’t know each other. “I’m sorry,” he says, gesturing from one man to the other, “Derek, this is Ben Lothario. Ben, this is Derek Hale. Shake hands or whatever.”

Derek grumpily extends his hand for a handshake and Ben takes it in his own calloused one and shakes it vigorously. “Hey man, how are ya,” he says, his eyes staring straight into Derek’s. He returns the stare, though he is sure he must look menacing because he has his trademark sourwolf face on (completely not on accident), and Ben gives an awkward laugh when he doesn’t respond. He turns to Stiles again.

“Wanna play Xbox at mine? I got the new expansion yesterday.” Derek notes the invitation isn’t extended to Scott, and raises an eyebrow in suspicion as he watches Stiles’ reaction.

“Yesterday? What did you do, queue up at midnight?” Stiles laughs, and when Ben just smiles in return, his face the epitome of smugness, Stiles gives an excited squeal and bounces on the spot. “You’re kidding! Holy—we _have_ to play it. We have to.”

“Come around mine at four then? The guild is planning a raid at 4:30. I’ll order pizza,” Ben says with a pat on Stiles’ back, almost conspiratorial. Derek scowls.

Stiles nearly has a fit, mouth gaping, arms flailing. “Y-yeah, I’ll see you at 4,” he stammers out, and Ben lowers his head swiftly to plant a quick kiss on Stiles’ buzzed hair as he wraps his arm around his neck in a loose chokehold. “Don’t be late,” he breathes against Stiles’ forehead and begins to move away, firing a finger-gun at him as he passes Scott, and giving a vague wave at Derek when he catches him staring.

They’re all quiet for a few seconds as Stiles gawps at Ben’s retreating form, while Derek and Scott sport equally disgruntled frowns. Derek clears his throat and Stiles breaks out of his daze, fumbling with embarrassment. “Heh, sorry about that,” he says, reaching behind his head to scratch lazily at his hairline. 

“He’s...” Derek pauses as he searches for the right word, “... _new_ ,” he finishes, suspicious sourwolf scowl locked firmly in place. 

Stiles half-chuckles and adjusts his book bag strap on his shoulder. “Yeah,” he says, not meeting Derek’s eyes. “We’re just hanging out.”

“He doesn’t just want to _hang out_ though,” Scott butts in, tone disapproving. He’s still biting his lip, worried frown and all. Derek watches with intrigue. Stiles scoffs.

“So what if he does?” he asks defensively. “He’s not the first guy I’d be dating.”

“I know that,” Scott says, and for a few moments doesn’t say anything. “It’s just,” he begins, voice faltering, “... he gives me the creeps, okay? I don’t like him.”

Stiles actually rolls his eyes at his best friend, more than mildly irritated. “Cut it out, alright, he’s cool.”

Scott drops the subject with a shrug; Derek can tell this is a conversation they’ve had before, and he wants to find out all about this Lothario guy because his first impression mirrors Scott’s, and he doesn’t know if it’s his latent attraction to Stiles or a genuine alarm going off in his head, but one thing is for sure: he doesn’t like the idea of Stiles hanging out with that guy either.

He clears his throat and suggests they go grab milkshakes at the retro diner, and Stiles just huffs and smiles fondly at him and says _yeah, let’s go_ , and they all take his jeep and head into town. The car ride is short, but it doesn’t take long for epiphanies to come, because before the ten minutes are up and they’re sitting in a booth with red leather couches ordering strawberry and oreo milkshakes, Derek’s decided that he’s had enough of this unrequited love bullshit.


	2. I Don't Wanna Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek can't figure out if Stiles is messing with him or not, and makes an important decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based on: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=40i2yhdEt5A

When they’re alone with Scott, after Stiles has left to go kill mythical monsters while eating pizza, Derek manages to get the 401 on Ben Lothario: he moved to town in September of last year, his father is some kind of contractor, he has a younger sister who’s a freshman at Beacon Hills, he’s on the lacrosse team and apparently has been spending a lot of time gaming with Stiles. This would all sound fine if the guy wasn’t giving off the creepiest vibes ever, and Derek knows now to trust his instincts, even if he didn’t always use to.

“It’s not that I’m jealous they’re hanging out a lot without me,” Scott says in-between mouthfuls of cheeseburger and curly fries, “and if he wants to date Stiles, that’s fine.” He takes a large swig of his strawberry milkshake and swallows before continuing. “It’s just the way he goes about it. The way he talks. Something’s not right. He’s creepy.”

Derek frowns. “Creepy how?”

Scott takes a moment to swallow his food (the speed with which the boy eats is unhealthy, Derek thinks), and ponders the question. “Like,” he begins, “he’ll compliment Stiles on the way he looks or something he says, and his eyes are just... _everywhere_ , if you get my drift.” He accompanies that with a suggestive eyebrow waggle that just looks dorky as hell, and Derek rolls his eyes. 

“I get your drift, Scott,” he says pointedly, even though he knows that with Scott the drifts are always as subtle as neon signs.

“And he smells funny,” Scott adds. “Like, in the wolf sense. Not all the time but especially when he’s around Stiles he just smells super weird.”

That really gets Derek’s attention. “Weird how?” he asks.

“Well... horny,” Scott says, his face something between grossed out and apologetic, like he really doesn’t want to say any of this out loud. He waits for a response but when Derek’s quiet for a few moments he takes the silence as permission to wolf down the rest of his cheeseburger, and the conversation’s as good as done.

The blood rushes to Derek’s head and he tunes out completely, the word _horny_ flashing in his mind’s eye and making him absolutely furious. He won’t stand for this; what is Stiles to this guy, some kind of prize toy? A piece of meat to be prepped for a feast? It makes him sick to think of Stiles being taken advantage of, even though, knowing the guy, he’d defend Lothario to the end claiming he never did anything Stiles didn’t want him to. Damn Stiles, always too kind and trusting to those he takes a liking to. For all his endless smarts, sometimes he’s the biggest idiot in the world.

When he and Scott part ways outside the diner, he considers saying something to him, something like _keep an eye on Stiles and that creep, and call me if anything happens,_ but he doesn’t, because it’s stupid, and even Scott would be able to tell something was up with him. He absently watches his beta unchain his bike from the post in front of the parking spot Stiles’ jeep occupied not long ago, and bites his lip with worry. He can’t—or rather, shouldn’t—interfere in Stiles’ life, but he has to do _something_ before the boy goes off the deep end. Just what that would be, he doesn’t know yet. He watches Scott ride away and turns back towards the wooded hills. He needs to do more thinking.

***

The Hale house has fallen into even further decay, but it somehow stings less every time Derek sees it now. He hasn’t been up here in a while; ever since expanding his pack and moving into the abandoned train depot, things have just been too busy to allow him to even think about his old house. And maybe that was for the best, he thinks, grateful for the distraction and companionship his pack has provided him with over the years. Kate’s gone now, and so is Peter, and with them any living reminder of his past life, of the person he used to be before tragedy took all his loved ones away. He climbs the steps to the porch and examines the outer wall; he’ll have to strip it bare and replace every board and nail if there’s any hope for the place. For a moment he allows himself to see the house as it used to be, magnificent and grand, full of life and laughter, and that memory alone is enough for Derek to want it all back. So what if it takes him years to rebuild? He’ll work on it day and night while his pack is off to college and road trips, and when they come back they’ll have a proper place to call home, far better than any abandoned warehouse with nothing but ancient train cars for rooms. He’ll build a home for all of them, and fill it with good memories again. 

Derek pushes the front door open tentatively, and wonders if Stiles will like this new home too, if he’ll visit all the time when he comes back from wherever he’s going to after graduation. He realises with a pang of regret that he never asked Scott what Stiles’ plan for the future is. With all that Ben crap, his foremost cause of worry completely escaped his mind. He makes a mental note to remember to ask the question as nonchalantly as possible the next time he and Scott are alone, and moves further into the house, stepping carefully around the rotten bits on the floorboards.

It looks fixable. He’s standing in the middle of what used to be the living room when he decides that yes, he’s fixing his old house, no matter what it takes. He takes a deep breath and smells everything the house is right now: mould, ash, blood, death; he wants to remember this smell, to never forget what this moment feels like, all focus and determination and hopeful sentimentality.

***

The next time he walks in on Isaac and Erica getting it on in the train depot Derek makes a U-turn and heads for the woods. He was supposed to hang out with Stiles today but the extremely horny wolves in his den have just made that impossible; he grunts in frustration as he walks towards his car, whips his cell out of his pocket and texts Stiles a quick “meet me at the Hale house”, to which he receives a startled “?!” as the only reply, and as he gets into the driver’s seat he curses under his breath. He hasn’t told anyone about the remodelling yet; he hasn’t done much and he wants the announcement to be an awesome surprise, not an empty promise. He figures Stiles can hang around while he gets some work done; maybe he could tear down the railing and replace a couple of window frames—hell, maybe Stiles could even lend a hand.

He hasn’t been waiting long when the familiar roar of Stiles’ jeep announces the boy’s arrival. Stiles climbs out of the car and extends his hands in a silent ‘what the hell?!’ as he approaches Derek where he stands next to the porch. 

“Dude!” he finally says when he stops next to Derek. “What are we doing here?”

Derek sulks, his hands buried deep in his leather jacket’s pockets. “I’m rebuilding the house,” he announces, skipping the whole Isaac-and-Erica-took-over-my-den story—he figures it’s not that important anyway.

Stiles gapes, open mouthed and slack jawed, and turns to look at the house, the burned shell that once felt haunted and terrifying—and made Derek look equally so. “Okay,” he says slowly, nodding his head. “Right now?”

“Unless you had something else in mind,” Derek says. _He_ has a million other things in mind, actually, and he can’t believe he let that line come out of his mouth. He pleads in his mind for Stiles not to pick up on the underlying connotation.

Stiles shrugs and gives him one of his goofy smiles. “Nothing at all,” he says, and Derek exhales with relief. “Let’s get crackin’!”

They don’t actually get much done; after a mere couple of hours of work, Stiles is juggling with a couple of crowbars and asking to see just how much weight Derek can lift, so they concede that the two of them are hardly the most productive team on the planet. Derek’s putting his tools back in the box, wiping his brow with his shirt sleeve, when Stiles chuckles to himself and mutters something indeterminate as he coils the thick power cord they used for the drill earlier.

“What was that?” Derek asks, and looks up to see Stiles looking away, towards the preserve fence down the hill.

Stiles points in the direction he’s looking at. “When you first talked to me we were standing right over there,” he says, his finger moving in a lazy, vague circle. “I couldn’t even say anything until after you left, I was shaking in my sneakers.”

Derek doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. He lets go of the hammer he was holding and stands up, awkwardly wiping his hands on his jeans. Stiles is still looking towards that spot, and when he follows his gaze Derek can remember that day perfectly. He was scared and hurt and angry, and he’d have ripped both Stiles’ and Scott’s throats out if they hadn’t looked so frickin’ clueless—and if there wasn’t something about Stiles, something about his heartbeat or the way his breath hitched at his throat when Derek appeared, that brought him out of his red daze.

He doesn’t say ‘me too’, but he thinks it.

Stiles smiles fondly, and quietly says “I think about that day all the time.”

Derek’s heart is pounding and he’s never been gladder that Stiles isn’t a wolf himself. “You do?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Stiles says and smiles broadly, turning towards him now with his hands on his hips. “I met one of my best friends out there, even if he’s a grumpy sourwolf who doesn’t like having nice things.”

Derek makes to protest, but shuts his mouth before he says something stupid. Stiles takes the silence as approval and keeps talking. 

“We make great friends, you have to admit,” he says, grabbing the coiled power cord and making for Derek’s car. He pops the trunk and throws the cord in it haphazardly. “And some pretty decent handymen,” he adds, flexing his arms and pulling a macho face that Derek finds utterly endearing, even though he’d never admit such a thing out loud.

“I don’t know about that last one,” Derek says, and grabs the toolbox from the porch, “but we do make great friends.” He isn’t looking at Stiles when he says it, but when he looks up Stiles is throwing him the biggest fucking grin he’s ever seen, and it makes his chest feel a little tighter.

“Damn right we do,” Stiles says, and gives Derek a big slap on the back as he loads the toolbox into the trunk. Derek instinctively glares at him, but it doesn’t make Stiles cower in the slightest.

***

It’s been weeks since that first time they ‘worked’ on the house, and even though they’ve met up a few more times to measure rooms and consider what walls to take down, Derek hasn’t actually done anything else around the place. He tells himself it’s not because Stiles has been busy with the last few weeks of school (he’s not _that_ desperate for company, thank you very much), but the truth is he doesn’t want to go up there and work alone.

So he invents excuses and occupies himself doing other things; he takes up reading poetry again, like he used to before Laura died, and reminisces with just a tiny bit of bitterness at the plans he and his sister had made but never got to complete: they were going to use their savings to go to community college in New York, and he would’ve been a poet and she would’ve been a social worker, and they’d live in a dingy apartment in Harlem and live on nothing; they would make a home for themselves away from the burned wreckage that haunted their nightmares no matter how far they went.

Well, look how that all turned out.

Stiles doesn’t say anything about the house to Scott or anyone else, and Derek’s quite grateful for that. He knows Stiles as well as anyone can and it’s a fact that, had he not asked him in the least intimidating tone of voice he could muster and cranked up the puppy eyes (the one valuable thing Scott ever taught him) to maximum power, the news would be known all over _town_ , let alone amongst the pack. It’s taken Derek years to figure out that threats never work on Stiles—if anything, they only make him lash out in protest and indignation—but at least now he finally knows how to get what he wants out of him. Stiles seems to have taken the matter of secrecy so seriously that he’s taken to texting Derek in code whenever the house is concerned, and while Derek has tried to make it clear that such measures aren’t necessary, he also knows that when Stiles makes up his mind about something, that’s it. You either deal with it, or you deal with it.

They’re supposed to go up there today and tear out the floorboards all over the ground floor, and Derek’s all but done packing up the tools they’ll need when he gets a text from Stiles.

_Have to raincheck on the Dollhouse marathon. Hanging out with Ben tonight. Sorry!_

Derek dumps the toolbox on the floor and pockets his phone angrily. He wants to pretend he doesn’t mind this asshole taking up Stiles’ time, but he does. A lot.

He’s been careful about asking for updates from Scott and sometimes even Isaac (who is also on the lacrosse team but less observant of Stiles and Ben’s interactions), so he knows that things are pretty much the same between them: Stiles is friendly, Ben is creepy ( _and horny_ , Scott reminds him), and even though they flirt shamelessly neither has made a move on the other yet.

Meanwhile, Stiles has been dropping even more uncalled-for declarations of undying friendship and reminders of all the incidents during which Stiles has saved Derek’s life— _Remember that time I held you up for two hours in a pool? Remember when I almost cut your arm off? Remember that Mountain Ash thing I did at the rave?_ —that make Derek want to bang his head against the nearest wall until either his skull or the wall shatter into pieces. Not only does he remember every single one of those moments in excruciating detail, he also remembers panicking at the thought of anything ever happening to Stiles—his first clue, really, although it took a while for it to sink in—and all the times he stood between danger and Stiles so the human boy would be safe. All Stiles does is remind him of those times and how well they always work together, what fun times they have now that the dangerous stuff is over, how their meeting that day in the woods was _meant to be..._ If Derek didn’t know better, he’d think Stiles was flirting with him.

He does know better, though, and the fact is that Stiles is a clueless buffoon who hangs out with werewolves and lets a creeper lure him into his house for video games when all he wants is to jump his bones—basically, he toys with danger at any chance he gets, and this is no different. 

The truth is that they _do_ make good friends, and chances are that when Stiles says it, that’s what he means. Sure, it makes Derek’s heart literally skip a beat when he hears it, and yes, when Derek says he likes spending time with Stiles he means he’d like to spend literally every minute of his day with him, but he knows not to expect it to mean the same to the younger boy. Stiles is just a friendly idiot who couldn’t get a clue if it bit him in the ass, and Derek tries to remind himself of that daily.

That being said, he still hates that Ben kid’s guts, and at times like these he wonders what he’s even doing, sporting a crush for a barely-eighteen-year-old boy who clearly has a life outside all of this—outside Derek and his werewolf mess. He thinks it’s all stupid, that he should stop thinking about him and move on, but then Stiles says something again and he’s back where he began, hopelessly—

A text. Derek takes his phone out of his pocket.

_This video game is boring. Ben likes sci-fi shooting games, ugh. Bring back the magical wolves, am I right?_

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. He fires back a response.

_You play video games with werewolves in your off time? Don’t you get enough of that crap in real life?_

His phone buzzes again in less than a minute.

_I can never get enough of that crap._

Derek’s heart is in his throat. Before he can formulate a coherent reply in his head, he gets another text.

_Did you watch Dollhouse by yourself after all?_

This code is stupid, Derek thinks, and not nearly secret enough, but he plays along anyway.

_No, it’s not fun if it’s just me._

He gets a funny feeling in his stomach as he types this; this is probably the most honest he’s been with anyone in ages, and it’s happening over texts while Stiles is hanging out with a creepy douchebag who’s trying to sleep with him. It dawns on him that he _really_ can’t take any more of this crap, and since desperate times call for desperate measures and all... He finishes off the message.

_Wanna come over tomorrow? We can finish off the season._

He doesn’t have to wait long before he gets Stiles’ response.

_Sure. I’ll bring the soda, you bring the chips._

Derek just had an idea, and it’s the stupidest and best idea he’s ever had.


	3. Desperate Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek executes a last-ditch first effort plan because things got drastic, and payback is a motherfucker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based on: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jTiIAW7qmGU

When he wakes up the next morning, Derek’s stomach is all kinds of upset; it’s like there’s lead mixed in with last night’s dinner and it won’t leave him be for more than a few seconds before it sends him crippling down, nauseating and sickening with one thought at the forefront of his mind: _this is stupid._

It takes him ages to get up, mostly because every movement just brings that gut-wrenching feeling back. He can hear his betas shuffling in their train cars and knows he’ll have to get out of ‘bed’ soon and put his reckless plan into motion, but he relishes those precious in-between minutes where everything is still and his dreams still linger in his consciousness—right before he remembers again what day it is and what he’s about to do, and how stupid, stupid, _stupid_ it all is.

It’s barely nine when he grabs his tool bag and his jacket and heads out of the depot without so much as a grunt towards his betas; they won’t bat an eyelid, he knows, because he’s not a morning person and sometimes he just leaves without saying a word, and right now he is not in the mood for banter. He loads up the Camaro and slides into the driver’s seat, moves mechanical while his mind is racing and screaming at him, and he doesn’t even register the minutes it takes him to drive up to the Hale house.

Derek likes the crisp morning air; there’s something clean and new about it, he thinks as he climbs out of his car, something about nature waking up and casting away yesterday’s darkness. He used to jog around these woods when he still lived in the burned out shell of his childhood home, back when Stiles and Scott were still these hostile kids he had to tiptoe around, when his demons came back one by one to pick away at his guilt-ridden heart and mornings were the only time he felt even remotely close to sane. He takes a deep breath, fills his lungs with the smell of dirt and tree leaves and for a split second nothing else matters but the birdsong and the breeze and the house swaying in the wind—

The house, right.

He takes the tools from his trunk and morosely sets them on the porch while he contemplates what to do first. As if on cue, a board falls from the roof overhead and Derek narrowly avoids head injury; _that decides it then,_ he thinks, and gives a small chuckle as he realises what a Stiles-esque moment this was, and crap, he’s thinking about Stiles again, and he’s about to cave in and abort everything he’s been planning because this is all _so stupid_ and there is _no way_ Stiles feels the same way.

... But what if he does?

What if those moments were exactly what Derek thought they were: little calculated reaches just shy enough of outright flirting that they still counted as friendly? What if Stiles just doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants? Derek half-sighs, half-grunts to himself in frustration. Stiles is young, awkward, and self-deprecating, perhaps even more so than Derek himself; his hanging out with that Lothario boy just proves how little he thinks of himself. Derek isn’t the type to shower anyone with compliments, but damn, Stiles is worth it. He’s saved Derek’s life so many times without even caring about the consequences, then suffered it all like a big boy when shit hit the fan because he’s not just reckless, he’s responsible, more responsible than Derek in his fledgling Alpha days could ever hope to be.

_That’s it_ , Derek thinks, _fuck it_. He takes off his t-shirt and climbs up on the roof with one swift jump, one hand on the pillar for support and the other holding his tool bag, face folded in that scowling frown Stiles always gives him hell for. Reckless is Derek’s middle name, and so is Stupid, Impatient, and—damn Stiles for making it stick—Sourwolf. Well this reckless, impatient sourwolf isn’t giving up today, and if his plan proves stupid and he makes an ass of himself, well, how bad could it possibly get?

***

When Stiles gets to the Hale house, Derek’s on the roof hammering away; he hears the jeep engine rev up noisily and then turn off, followed by the creaking of the driver’s door opening and closing, and looks down from the porch roof where he’s been fixing the holes since the morning.

Stiles is holding a six pack of sodas, arms outstretched and mouth agape in that ‘what the hell’ shrug that should really bear his name. “Dude,” he says, pointing at the roof, the tools strewn messily across the porch floor, and the boards Derek’s torn off and thrown to the ground in front of the house. “You couldn’t wait for me?”

Derek scoffs and puts the hammer down, then with a swift, graceful motion slides off the roof, holding on to the edge before letting go and landing on his feet. He’s acutely aware of the sweat on his skin, and hopes Stiles notices it too. “Sorry,” he says with a smirk, turning towards Stiles as he wipes his hands on his jeans, “had kind of a restless morning.”

He nods towards the six-pack in Stiles’ hand.

Stiles follows Derek’s gaze and his whole body does that one-off spasm that accompanies his laugh. “Hah, yeah, well, I said I’d bring soda.”

“So you did.” Derek’s smirk hasn’t left his face.

“Yeah.”

There’s a moment of silence during which Derek notices Stiles’ eyes following a downward path from Derek’s face to his neck and chest and stomach; he flexes his abs in pretended absent-mindedness as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and watches Stiles as he gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down reflexively.

Point, Hale.

Before Stiles has said anything else, Derek swoops in and grabs the six-pack from Stiles’ hands, noting with satisfaction the boy’s startled gasp when he moves towards him. He moves away just as quickly, and he’s positive that Stiles is actually _flustered._

Turns out his plan might not be that stupid after all.

He gestures towards the Camaro. “I brought a cooler just in case,” he says, already moving towards his car. “We can have these when I’m done fixing the roof.” Stiles nods silently, plump lips parted in that ever so classic expression of wonderment. Derek almost feels sorry. He puts the sodas in the cooler, shuts the trunk, and turns to face the teen, doing his damnedest to contain his smugness.

“So,” he says, “shall we?”

***

The hours seem to tick on torturously slow now that his every movement has purpose. He’s fixing the roof alright, but he’s taking extra care to show off his back muscles and his arms, stopping every once in a while to purposefully wipe a stray bead of sweat from his brow when he knows Stiles is looking. The boy is much less productive in his designated task of clearing away the debris Derek dumps on the ground in front of the house, since he spends half the time staring up at Derek, mouth agape, legs constantly moving, hands unable to keep still.

Derek is biding his time, putting on the best damn show that would be considered legal on this side of the California/Nevada border; in his mind he’s counted off all the times Stiles provoked, teased or flirted with him, and he wants to make sure he gets his payback in. He’s aware of how agonising it must be for the boy to stand there and take in all of Derek’s muscle in motion—his strong arms, his lean back, his sculpted chest and stomach—but it doesn’t even compare to the torturous teasing of intimacy that Derek’s had to undergo as his friendship with Stiles got closer. All this time, nursing the mother of all crushes on this hyper-active, hyper-intelligent kid that couldn’t keep his mouth shut if it would save his life—yeah, payback is very much in order.

“Hey,” Stiles stammers up at him, and Derek stops what he’s doing and puts the hammer down next to him as he looks down to the boy.

“Yeah.”

Stiles swallows hard. “How about those drinks? I’m kinda parched.”

Derek nods and hides his satisfied grin as he climbs off the roof a little slower than he technically needs to with his back to Stiles. When he turns around Stiles’ mouth is gaping again, and Derek is very pointedly _not_ gloating. Not yet.

He clicks the Camaro’s trunk open and takes a couple of cans out of the cooler, throws one to Stiles and watches as the boy almost drops it on the ground, his eyes clearly busy elsewhere. He does his little spazzy dance that Derek once found excruciatingly annoying—before _it_ , along with everything else Stiles does, became oddly charming—and catches  it just before it lands, huffing out an awkward proud chuckle.

Derek rolls his eyes but says nothing as he clicks his soda can open and takes a giant swig of the drink. He keeps his eyes fixed on Stiles who is in turn staring at Derek’s bobbing Adam’s apple, thumb absently fiddling with his own, yet unopened can.

There’s something in the air that smells different, something beyond Derek’s sweat and the sugar in their drinks and the soft wet earth underneath their feet—he realises slowly that it’s Stiles, the pheromones coming off him in such delicious waves that it’s all Derek can do to not spit his drink out and pin the boy against the Camaro’s trunk right then and there.

_Right_ , Derek thinks, _enough is enough._

“How was gaming last night?” he asks, and Stiles gives a little shake of his head.

“It was fine. Kinda boring, you know? Normal.” He chuckles. “I’ve officially decided that first-person shooter games suck.”

“Ah-huh,” Derek says, moving away from the car and towards the porch steps, where he sits with his legs apart and his back hunched.

Stiles follows him but doesn’t sit down; he stands there awkwardly in front of Derek, drink sloshing about in the half-empty can. He shrugs a little non-committal shrug. “I don’t know,” he says after a few moments. “I guess hanging out with Ben isn’t as fun as I thought it would be.”

Derek raises his eyebrows; he likes what he’s hearing. “Why, what did you think it would be?” he asks, coyly looking at the ground in front of Stiles’ feet before looking up towards the boy again.

Stiles is looking away. “I’m not really sure,” he says, and his voice trails off.

It feels like long, _long_ minutes before he speaks again.

“I guess I thought I’d _feel something_ by now?” he says quietly, and his voice goes up as if it’s a question, but Derek knows that’s not what Stiles is really asking. He can feel the knot already forming in his stomach and before he’s given it a chance to settle, his mouth opens and the words fly out.

“You mean like you do when you’re with me?”

Silence. A heartbeat hitches, and Derek isn’t sure if it’s his or Stiles’.

Stiles turns towards Derek slowly, carefully, as if making a sudden move might shake the moment away. His eyes are wide like a child’s, all traces of enforced sarcasm and sentimentality completely gone. Derek feels like he’s being searched, the way Stiles is looking at him, and he can’t help but lock his eyes with his, eagerly seeking out the answer to his question.

Slowly, cautiously, and with an ever so imperceptible tremor, Stiles nods.

Derek springs to his feet and gets off the porch, soda can falling on the ground to free his hands so they can grab Stiles’ face on either side while Derek studies the boy’s face. Stiles looks incredulous, almost terrified, and when Derek’s face is in such close proximity to his own he just stops breathing, just for a few seconds. His own drink falls from his hands, and for a moment there’s the faint, audible hiss of carbon dioxide.

“Do you feel something now?” Derek asks, and he looks into Stiles’ eyes determined to find the answer there. The boy gapes, mouth slack, and it’s a few seconds before he regains enough composure to breathe out a feeble “Yes”.

Derek closes the short gap between them and captures Stiles’ lips with his own.

Something within his chest stirs and explodes; he’s overwhelmed with such a strong sensation of belonging, of _home_ , that he wonders how he lived before this moment, before knowing what Stiles’ lips feel and taste like, before feeling the boy give into him and with a moan reach out to grab Derek’s waist to bring him closer.

It’s almost like a battle of wills, the balance between them shifting precariously as the kiss turns into a frenzy of lips and tongues and hands. Derek pushes against Stiles, wrapping a strong arm around the boy’s waist and pulling him in, and he expects to have all control of this moment except Stiles is pushing back, nipping at Derek’s lips with his teeth in-between their long, laborious kisses, and taking deliberate strides forward, making Derek backtrack in surprise. He feels the porch steps against his ankles, and takes in a sharp, gasping breath as Stiles places his long, nimble fingers on his chest and pushes him backwards. Derek lands on the stairs with an ‘oof’.

“What are you doing?” Derek asks, panting, his lips swollen and tingling with the loss of contact. He wants more of Stiles, _now_ — _always._

Stiles gets a mischievous smirk on his face, not unlike the one he sports whenever he has one of his deliriously insane ideas.

“Something I’ve wanted to do for years,” he replies, and Derek finds himself unable to breathe as he watches Stiles descend to his knees and crawl towards Derek, one hand finding support against Derek’s knee, the other one reaching out for Derek’s fly.

Derek can’t even compose himself enough to say something, and when that hand reaches up and pops the button open and then finds his zipper and starts pulling it down, he gives up and arches into the touch.

Stiles is grinning now, eyes dark and glazed and fixed upon Derek. He crawls a little closer, brings himself right in the space between Derek’s knees, and with one last look at Derek’s face—as if seeking permission, which Derek would so gladly give if he could speak—he reaches into Derek’s pants, slips his hand underneath his briefs, and pulls out Derek’s cock.

Derek moans but the sound is coming from his chest and sounds more like a growl, a deep guttural thing; he’s aware of how Stiles looks up at him with a wicked satisfaction on his face, but he completely loses it when Stiles’ hand moves and he can _feel everything_ , not just the boy’s hand but his heartbeat, his shallow, excited breathing, his own dick rigid underneath his clothes. He’s thrown his head back against the steps above but has to snap forward when Stiles descends on him and wraps his lips around his cock, the sudden warmth and wetness feeling almost unbearably good.

The sight is enough to send Derek reeling again, but he keeps on looking, because Stiles is looking up at him and Derek’s dick is disappearing inside his mouth and damn if this isn’t the hottest thing Derek has seen in his _life._ Stiles licks down Derek’s length, his tongue long and warm and wet and his eyes sultry, and Derek’s heart is about to leap out of his chest. He’s moaning out gibberish, mostly Stiles’ name, as the sensations—and Stiles’ excruciating pheromones—are driving him mad.

Stiles is slowly jerking off the base of Derek’s cock, and the whole thing is a bit sloppy and messy and perfect and Derek’s reflexively thrusting up into Stiles’ mouth, low guttural growl now growing louder and needier and nails turning into claws against the worn wooden porch steps. He can feel Stiles’ other hand slip from his thigh, and just the thought of Stiles touching himself is enough to make him cross that dangerous line into complete incoherence.

“Stiles,” he pants out, his breathing hard. He looks down beyond the planes of his own muscle at the boy he’s wanted to call his own for so long, and he meets his beautiful golden brown eyes as they stare right back at him. Something in him snaps. “I’m gonna—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. He’s coming harder than he’s ever come in his life and he isn’t even aware of the loud, filthy moans that are escaping his mouth because he’s still locked on Stiles who is boldly staring back as he swallows it all, hand gripped tight around Derek’s base. His vision goes completely white and he shuts his eyes; there’s a constant ringing in his ears that tunes out everything else; his claws dig into the wooden board underneath.

When he comes to a few seconds later, Stiles is pulling away from him, his hand coming up to wipe a stray drop of come from the edge of his mouth. He looks up at Derek as he sucks his thumb clean with a filthy, dark smirk on his face. “That was good,” he says, and Derek’s cock twitches.

Derek’s off the stairs and kneeling next to Stiles in a flash; he grabs the boy’s face and kisses him with fervour, tasting himself as his tongue explores Stiles’ mouth. It’s less of a battle now and more of a heated, determined declaration, a thank-you, a claim. “Mine,” Derek growls in-between kisses, and Stiles laughs into his mouth, his hands roaming over Derek’s chest.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, pulling back. There’s a two-second pause during which they look into each other’s eyes and there’s _so much_ in that one look that saying anything else is completely pointless.

Derek decides to close the gap again, kissing Stiles as he pushes him back toward the ground and climbing on top of him. One hand finds its way to Stiles’ crotch, and the boy laughs into their kiss again even as he thrusts into Derek’s touch.

“Can’t wait to get your hands on me, can you, Sourwolf?” Stiles asks, biting Derek’s bottom lip and drawing a moan from him.

Derek glowers at him, his mock-scowl and furrowed wolfy eyebrows wholly unconvincing. “You couldn’t either,” he notes lamely, but it’s the truth and Derek’s sticking to it—not to mention Stiles’ neck and gorgeous freckled face is too delicious to stop kissing. He wants to make up for lost time, for the last-ditch effort that got them here, for all the moments his heart skipped beats because Stiles was _Stiles_ , and if the ground in front of his burned old house is where it happens, then so be it.

He’s gotten to Stiles’ achingly hard dick and as he wraps a hand around it he feels Stiles freeze and breathe out a soft gasp. He closes the boy’s open mouth with his own and their kiss becomes a living thing that takes them over, makes them roll on the ground until Stiles is straddling him, and when he opens his eyes to look at him the sight is something to behold—a smiling freckled vision framed by a canopy of trees and the overcast sky, spelling out _home_ even clearer than the shell of his childhood house not ten feet away.

Stiles swoops in and captures Derek’s lips and Derek can’t help but moan into the kiss, wrapping his arms around the boy and hiking up his shirt to feel the soft, sweet skin underneath. Stiles smells and tastes so good and Derek can’t get enough, so he licks his way down the boy’s throat and nuzzles his nose against the crook above his shoulder-blade and just breathes him in.

He remembers that he has a favour to repay, so he slicks up his hand before he finds Stiles’ cock again and gives it a tug. Stiles’ moan and involuntary hip thrust puts a smile on Derek’s face. He knows what to do to make the younger boy feel good, because unlike his partner he isn’t eighteen or a virgin, and so he puts his best effort in, twisting and turning his wrist this and that way as he jerks the boy off. Stiles’ breath is coming in gasps, and Derek watches in fascination as Stiles closes his eyes and loses himself in the sensation.

A foreign sound pierces the delicate bubble the two have built around themselves—a phone ringing, somewhere not too far. Stiles’ eyes shoot open and Derek feels him stiffen underneath his fingers. He gives him a few purposeful hard tugs and Stiles comes all over Derek’s chest, gasping out incoherent sounds which Derek is sure spell out his name.

It’s awkward and rushed as hell, yet when the smell of Stiles’ come on his skin hits Derek’s nostrils he has no room for regret. He cranks his neck up for a kiss but Stiles is pulling up, fumbling in his pockets for the culprit that spoiled their hard-earned, long-overdue moment of clarity. A look of panic crosses Stiles’ face, and before Derek can ask who it is Stiles is picking up hastily.

“Heeey Dad,” he says with a drawl, “what’s up?” He looks at Derek and makes this apologetic face, but Derek waves him off and puts a hand on Stiles’ thigh, soothing circles into the denim with his thumb. Stiles smiles imperceptibly as he focuses his attention to the phone call. Derek fights every urge in his body to keep himself from listening, so instead he hooks an arm behind his head and looks up at Stiles, taking in his dishevelled form, wrinkled shirt and open fly and cock still hanging out, dripping—decadence in all its glory.

Stiles fumbles and splutters on the phone, looking around him with his free hand flailing all about. “Uh, can’t it wait? I’m kind of busy right—”

Derek knows Stiles will have to leave and his heart sinks, and it must show on his face because next thing he knows Stiles is hovering over him and touching his cheek softly. “Okay, okay, yeah, I’ll be right there. Give me fifteen minutes,” he says, and his eyes drop in disappointment. “Fine, ten.” He hangs up and chucks the phone off to the side, where it lands on dead leaves and soft earth.

He looks at Derek, and leans in really close until his lips are only an inch away from Derek’s mouth. “To be continued?” he asks with a cheeky grin, and Derek smiles.

“Yeah. I’m not going anywhere.”

Stiles smiles broadly and closes the gap between their mouths, and they kiss softly, languidly, breathing each other in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to all those who waited patiently. This was my first ever porny chapter and I was so nervous about it that I kept putting it off indefinitely... but no more. I have conquered my demons and I feel like I've levelled up somehow. Bring on the motel shagging!
> 
> On that note, a massive thank-you to [Amy Rose](http://haynnes.tumblr.com) for beta-ing and pushing me to finish this chapter. You are a legend and a genius and I owe you Scisaac AU and schmoopy and sexy Sterek--which is coming up, soon, in this fic. Because roadtrips.
> 
> Stay tuned.


	4. Ready To Go (Get Me Out Of My Mind)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles gets what he wants, and there's silly graduation robes and hats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based on: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0xDf-_8KvGM

Stiles’ head is spinning on the drive back to his house; the windows are down and the air is swirling inside his jeep and—he just had sex with Derek Hale. He made out with Derek Hale and he _went down_ on Derek Hale and he _can still taste_ Derek Hale and he’s in this post-orgasmic state of blissful giddiness that is making him lightheaded and that’s because of _Derek fucking Hale_. Stiles bites his lip, trying to contain the massive grin that’s battling to take over his face, and when he finds he can’t he just lets out a ‘whoohoo!’ that echoes through the forest, his fist pumping wildly in the air.

Stiles Stilinski is no longer a virgin. And Derek’s _not going anywhere_.

Graduation is suddenly looking more like a gateway to freedom rather than the terrifying ending of an era, and Stiles finally allows his busy, overactive mind to make plans, to run free and wild with daydreams of things he wants. Now that his long-shot pipe dream is no longer an unattainable fantasy, he can wish, he can want, he can _ask_ for things and make them _real_.

The possibilities distract him all the way home, and no matter how grave his father wants to make this latest emergency seem, he isn’t even listening. He’s thinking summer plans and beyond, he’s thinking that in the context of today his super secret life plan is in fact the most ingenious idea he’s ever had, and he’s thinking of Derek, and the elaborate show he put on this morning just to get Stiles hot and bothered. He has to hand it to him—the sourwolf has a flare that Stiles never would’ve guessed was in him.

All he has to do now is find a way to top that.

***

Stiles has concluded that graduation robes are the silliest clothes ever invented, but he can’t help but grin stupidly when he sees his dad sitting in the crowd, looking up at the stage. He can swear he can see tears in his dad’s eyes and it just makes him swell up with pride and a small twist of grief—knowing his mom never got to see him in these stupid deep red robes and the dorky hat fills him with this intense sadness for one split second, but it goes away quickly because he sees Derek standing in the back behind all the seated parents, and he has a goofy, proud smile on his face and Stiles feels like exploding.

 _It’s funny how grief subsides when you open your heart to someone new_ , he thinks, and whoa, he did _not_ just go there. He blinks and shakes his head a little, the Adderall swimming wildly in his system, and fixes his eyes on Scott’s form ahead of him. It’s a bit of a miracle they’re all here, really, because their high school lives were fraught with more death and mayhem than the entirety of Stiles’ horror movie collection combined—and it’s a pretty loaded stack of DVDs. The unlikelihood of this situation isn’t lost on him. Quite the opposite, he _revels_ in it.

Stiles watches Scott receive his diploma from the new principal (they’ve been getting a new one every year since sophomore year, like a freaking McDonald’s seasonal toy campaign) and thinks _Fuck. This is it. We made it._ Scott turns around and flashes him his ridiculous puppy grin, and Stiles is grinning back and nearly jumping at his friend except there’s a principal with a rolled-up piece of paper in his hand standing in the way, and he can hear his name resounding from the gym speakers—his _real_ name, not just ‘Stiles’—and suddenly it’s _his_ moment, and it plays out like a fucking 80s movie: the diploma is shoved in his hand and he barely remembers to flip the tassel to the right side of his face before he poses for what probably will be the most awkward graduation photo in Beacon Hills’ history, true to Stilinski form and upholding his reputation as class clown; he spots his dad again, whistling and clapping and shouting “that’s my boy!”, as if there’s a single person in this room (nay, in this _town_ ) who doesn’t know whose boy Stiles is; he spots Scott’s mom, who’s giving him the warmest smile and applause from her seat next to his father. He smiles back at them, grinning widely and pumping his fist in the air because _he made it_ , he’s alive and he’s free and he’s equal parts excited and terrified, but that’s good. That’s all good.

When he spots Derek he feels his heartbeat quicken. He hurries down the steps and off the stage, and practically runs towards the back of the room, ignoring the numerous pats he gets on his back from people he passes by: classmates, teammates, teachers—Finstock is calling out “well done Bilinski”—until he reaches the end of the rows of seats and he slows down, making his way to where Derek stands, waiting for him.

 “Hey,” he says, fumbling with his diploma in his hands, breathless with hope and excitement and the sight of Derek. He looks even better than Stiles remembers, if that’s even possible, and it makes Stiles giddy.

Derek chuckles softly, a strange music to Stiles’ ears. “Hey,” he replies. He’s wearing a white shirt and the first two—no, three—buttons are popped open, and it’s all Stiles can do to stand there and look at him and not jump on him and kiss every inch of his magnificent wolfy face, and then everything else. _Ahem._

 “Congratulations,” Derek says, and Stiles feels a rush of blood to his—face, yep, face. He’s blushing. He’s going to match his stupid burgundy robes now, great. _Great_.

“Thanks.” Stiles is actively trying not to hyperventilate. When did talking to Derek become so physically difficult? “I guess I’m an adult now,” he jokes, pointing at his hat and his robes. He chuckles awkwardly when a peculiar look crosses Derek’s face. “Hah, I didn’t mean, well, I, uh—”

“Of course. I know what you meant.”

“Right.”

It’s like the rest of the hall has gone quiet, and all that’s there is Derek in his jeans and crisp white shirt and Stiles in his robes and geeky hat. The model and the wizard. No, not even a wizard; they didn’t wear ugly red satin robes at Hogwarts.

Derek uncrosses his arms and takes a couple of steps closer. “I, uh, never got you a gift for graduation,” he says in a soft voice, and it’s so seductive Stiles is feeling the blood rush downstairs _really_ quickly.

“Haha, a gift, huh? Like what?” His throat’s really dry. Derek’s really close now. _Help._

“I don’t know, anything you want,” Derek says, licking his lips. “What do you want?”

 _You,_ Stiles thinks, _without the pack. Just you. You and me._

“I don’t know,” is what comes out of his mouth, and Stiles wants to kick himself. He settles for a short, violent shake of his head, a little neurotic spasm that baffles most people, but not Derek. Derek’s still looking straight into his eyes, smirking that deadly smirk of his, and _are those fangs hiding underneath his lips?_

“Uhhh—”

“Dude! We made it!”

Thank God for Scott, sometimes.

The moment’s gone, and they’re surrounded by werewolves—and a couple of humans—who are now officially done with high school. Lydia and Erica somehow manage to look amazing in their robes, as does Allison. Isaac’s robes seem to be slightly short for him, and Boyd looks like a giant wardrobe draped in red. Scott looks ridiculous. But then again, Scott looks ridiculous most of the time.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, sandwiched between Scott and Boyd. “We made it.”

“I can’t wait for college,” says Lydia, flipping one of her perfect curls over her shoulder. Jackson nods in agreement next to her, tassel bobbing back and forth next to his face. Stiles stifles a laugh.

“I can’t wait for our Vegas road triiiip,” Erica sing-songs, elbowing Isaac in the ribs. Isaac smirks hungrily and takes Erica in his arms, kissing her with way more tongue than is socially acceptable in public. There’s a collective exclamation of disgust from most of their group, in which Stiles is certainly the most vocal.

“Oh ew guys, guys, get a room, seriously,” he says with disapproval, although his eyes fleetingly glance over to Derek and find the alpha staring right back at him with knowing, hungry eyes. _Oh boy._

“What were you guys whispering about before?”

Stiles whips around at the sound of Lydia’s voice. His tassel hits him in the face gracelessly. “ _What?!_ ”

“Before we came over, you guys,” she points to Derek then Stiles then Derek again, “were whispering something all suspiciously. What was it?”

“Hah,” Stiles huffs, arms flailing. He looks at Derek. Who is once again a block of polished marble, expressionless, inscrutable, perfect. “I, uh, he—”

“I asked him what he wants for a graduation gift,” Derek says, and Stiles is amused at the gasps from around their makeshift circle. Derek Hale, alpha extraordinaire, voluntarily speaks?

 _I know, shocker,_ Stiles thinks, rolling his eyes at them and Derek alike.

“And? What did you say?” Allison asks, and Stiles turns to look at her indignantly. She’s snaked an arm around Scott’s and they look so sickeningly cute together Stiles isn’t sure whether to vomit or burst into song.

“Nothing yet,” he says, and he looks around the circle at everyone’s curious faces. “I don’t know.”

“Oh come on,” says Lydia, hooking an arm through Jackson’s, mirroring Allison. “There’s gotta be _something_ you want.” She quirks her eyebrows up and _ohhh, the nerve_. Stiles is _not_ about to launch into the detailed description of exactly what he wants from Derek, even if that’s what Lydia, with her perfect strawberry blonde curls and lip-gloss smile, is dying to hear. Nope. Not happening.

“Yeah, Stilinski, enlighten us,” says Jackson, playing along, and covering Lydia’s hand with his own, tracing circles on it with his thumb. They look at each other and share a conspiratorial grin, and _dammit, Jackson,_ when did Stiles start finding those two adorable?

By now Stiles is fuming. All eyes are on him and there seems to be no escape. How does he change the subject? How does he get himself off the hook? And what in the name of all that is holy does he even want?

He looks around at everyone, biting his lip. Isaac is still sucking Erica’s face, Lydia and Jackson are smirking at him, and Allison and Scott are both doing the puppy eye look that always works on him and _damn_.

What he wants is time. He wants time with Derek. He wants just him and Derek together for days, with no one to bother them, with no werewolf crap, no Scott and no Allison and no pack stuff to distract either of them. He wants time to let the magic happen. He wants fireworks.

_Fireworks._

“I want to see the fireworks in San Francisco,” he blurts out, mouth running before his mind’s done spinning. “On the 4th of July.”

They all probably expected something else, because no one’s laughing or making fun of him or anything. He turns to Derek, whose eyes are as wide as the rest of them.

“I want a road trip to San Francisco,” Stiles says firmly now, and he takes a step closer to Derek as if to make a point. “But we’re taking the scenic route.”

“Why the scenic—”

“You said anything I want, right?”

Derek’s cornered, but he looks amused. “Yes, I did.”

“Well, good. That’s what I want.”

“Okay.”

Lydia seems sufficiently pleased and the conversation veers towards everyone else’s plans as Allison drapes herself over Scott, and Stiles and Derek can’t stop staring at each other, stuck in an 80s movie slo-mo scene with cheesy synthpop music in the background.

Stiles wants to move so badly, to jump and run and let the energy inside him run free, but it’s so much that he just stands still and feels the blood beneath his veins boil. He almost jumps when he feels Derek’s fingers brush against his own, and when he looks back up he finds Derek smiling, and their fingers curl together, and this, right here, this is fireworks.

A pat on his back breaks the moment, and Stiles turns around to find Ben Lothario grinning at him, tassel flopping wildly around his eyes.

“Hey, Stiles! Congrats, man!” he says, and pulls Stiles into a bear-hug that knocks the wind out of him.

“Hah, ah, thanks, dude, you too,” says Stiles, and scrambles his way out of Ben’s arms. He hasn’t really seen him since before the day he and Derek... yeah. He suspects Ben probably got the hint when Stiles kept saying he was busy every time he asked him to hang out after that. And well, he wasn’t lying. He had been very, very busy helping Derek fix his house. And making out in his car. And _in_ his house. And outside it. And pretty much everywhere around it.

“Thanks,” Ben says, and he looks behind Stiles with recognition. “Oh hey, Derek, right?”

Stiles whips around, caught between the two men who are shaking hands now, and is it just Stiles or is this moment like super awkward? Like, epic levels of awkward?

“Yeah,” Derek says as he shakes Ben’s hand, and yep, awkward, super awkward, _kill me now_ , Stiles pleads as he watches them both.

Ben takes a step back, fumbling. “Uh, I’m having a party at mine after this is over, do you wanna come?”

Stiles hesitates. He looks at Derek, opens his mouth to say something, closes it, opens it again, and lets out a feeble croak. He thinks back to all the times he daydreamed of the moment someone would ask him out and he’d just go ‘sorry, I’m taken’ with a self-satisfied glee. This feels significantly less satisfying than he thought it would. _Imagine that._

 “Uhh, actually, I can’t,” he manages in the end. “But have fun though.”

Ben looks wounded. “Aw come on, Stilinski,” he says, play-punching him on the shoulder. “Why not?”

 “He can’t,” Derek says, and steps up. Stiles yelps in surprise when Derek’s arm coils around his waist and stays there, firm, muscular, possessive. _Oh, so that’s how that feels,_ Stiles muses. _That feels nice._

Ben stares at Stiles, then Derek, then Derek’s hand on Stiles’ hip, and Stiles can visibly see when it all clicks in his head, the “oh!” moment, the little light above his head. It amuses him greatly—and it feels tons better than the self-satisfied glee he thought he’d be feeling.

“I’m sorry, man,” Ben says (though to whom is kind of unclear) with hands raised in surrender. “I didn’t know.” He looks at Stiles, goes to say something, doesn’t.

Stiles feels Derek’s grip on his hip tighten just a tiny bit. He covers Derek’s hand with his own, eager to touch him back, and breaks out a grin when he feels Derek’s hand squeeze his hip at that. He looks over his shoulder, at Derek’s face, then remembers that Ben’s still there.

Ben, who is staring at the two of them with a most unfathomable expression.

“You guys have fun,” he says finally, dejectedly taking a few steps backwards. “I’ll see you around, Stiles.” And with that, he’s gone.

Stiles feels Derek lean into him, his nose brushing against Stiles’ ear and breath hot against his neck. “You have no idea how long I wanted to do that.”

Stiles smiles wickedly and peers over his shoulder, nose bumping against Derek’s. “Oh yeah?” he asks. “Do tell.”

***

When he shows up at the depot to pick up Derek, the sourwolf isn’t there. He finds Erica and Isaac in a mess of duffel bags and clothes strewn everywhere, and he gets all but shoved out the door with a growled “he’s at the Hale house”.

Stiles sighs and puts the keys back in the ignition, revving the engine up a bit before going out back the way he came. What’s Derek even doing at the Hale house? They agreed to continue with the renovations when they get back, so... what’s the deal?

He glances at the back briefly when he’s a few minutes away from the Hale house and does a mental check of his packed things. Clothes? Check. Camera? Check. Swimming trunks? Check. Yep, everything’s here. He focuses back on the road and with the windows down and the music up, this already feels like the best day of his life. Well, okay, maybe second best—nothing will beat the day Derek seduced him with nothing but an absent shirt and a smile—but he’ll allow things to come as close as possible, as many times as possible.

Starting with today.

He finds Derek standing in the clearing outside his old house. There’s a bag on the ground behind him but that’s about it; his car’s nowhere to be seen. Stiles wonders if Derek walked here (an absurd question, of course he did—in fact, he probably bounded on all fours with his bag strapped on his back; now _there’s_ a mental image Stiles will quietly laugh about to himself forever) as he turns the engine off and climbs out of the jeep clumsily.

“Hey,” he says, taking slow, large strides towards Derek. “What are we doing here?”

Derek is just staring at the house wistfully. “Nothing. Just...”

“Admiring our work?” Stiles asks, hands on his hips.

Derek’s face is darkened by a pensive frown, and Stiles takes a couple steps closer to him. Moments like this remind Stiles of the Derek he first met, the Derek who tried too hard to be menacing because his heartache showed through the cracks. He can catch a glimpse of it right now and it unnerves him, so he walks up to Derek and wraps his arms around his waist wordlessly, staring at his face until Derek relents and looks back at him.

“What?”

 “You know this isn’t running away, right?”

Derek huffs, but Stiles can see the quiet desperation in the werewolf’s eyes. He pulls him in a little tighter.

“We’ll be back and we’ll fix it and it’ll be perfect.” He rests his head on Derek’s shoulder. “No more running.”

Derek’s arms come up to envelop Stiles in warm muscle, and they kiss right there in front of the house for what feels like hours. It takes Stiles all the willpower in the world to break away.

“Hey, wolf man,” he says in-between soft, playful kisses. “We gotta get on the road.”

Derek growls, snapping his teeth at him in pretend annoyance. Stiles captures his mouth in another kiss instead.

“Seriously,” he laughs, “are you ready to live— _leave_ , I meant leave, are you ready to _leave_?”

Derek honest-to-God laughs now, and the sound does things to Stiles’ already rampant heart. He watches Derek as he disentangles himself from Stiles, breathless and smiling; Derek looks down at the ground, then at the house for a while. When he looks back at Stiles, his smile takes the boy’s breath away.

“I’m ready to live,” Derek says earnestly. “Let’s go.”

With the bags all loaded and the seatbelts fastened and the windows rolled down, Stiles gets onto the road and drives north. The air smells like pine needles and Derek, and Stiles feels like _whoohoo_ -ing again.


End file.
